by Jess Bentley
As she sways to the next table, she leaves a cloud of sweet perfume in her wake. A dark-haired busboy delivers baskets of food and drinks while Will tries to figure out what he’s going to say next.
“Cass, did you know about this?”
I pop a fried pickle into my mouth, trying not to wince as the hot oil sears my tongue.
“Did I know about the burgers? Hell, yes. They’re great.”
“No… I mean, did you know about the—”
His voice trails off. I wait for a half a second and then follow his eyeline to where it ends. At the far end of the room, there is something that seems like it couldn’t quite be real. Something that seems framed up, out of place. But significant. Something… Someone.
Part of our military training is learning to separate intuition from noise. We learn to appreciate that sometimes your body understands a situation first, and it takes your brain a second to catch up. You have to know the signs: you feel alert or edgy. You feel like an animal. Your body is smart. It knows things quickly. Brains are slow.
Right now, we both know the same thing. That blonde at the end of the room. The one standing with her shoulders flexed, wearing only a pale pink set of bra and panties. The one whose lean, muscled frame practically vibrates with tension, her eyes darting nervously around the room…
That’s the one. That’s our girl.
Chapter 5
Libby
Just before we walk into Sweeney’s, Mona grabs my wrist and stops me. I practically fall off the baby blue stilettos she forced me to wear. No joke. These things are not made for walking.
“Okay, just follow my lead, all right?” she hisses through her teeth. “Whatever I say, just agree like you know what you are doing. Play along, and everything will be all right.”
I twist my shoulders in the T-shirt she let me wear, after some heated discussions about my taste in clothes. I get it: she does not approve. She doesn’t think a “lady” dresses in jeans and a T-shirt on a Friday night, or something like that. Friday nights are for trawling for men, apparently.
I knew that going in, and took care in selecting my outfit. Figuring that we could reach a compromise, I really did try for “sexy” in my own way.
In my mind, I figured that the Rolling Stones were still pretty sexy, but when I got to her house she disagreed. She practically ripped my jeans off me, and when I objected, she demanded that I make some immediate alterations. As in, with scissors.
What started out as a simple blue jeans and vintage T-shirt operation turned into tattered, torn pants that I think are showing most of my ass, and a T-shirt that got magically turned into a halter with my bra straps hanging out for the world to see.
I mean, it does still say Rolling Stones on it, but only because Mona is exceptionally crafty. She kept the logo and turned the rest of it into strings that she tied behind my back and over my shoulders.
I feel naked. Thank God for underwear.
“Mona, maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” I mutter back, wobbling on the heels.
I wish I still had my Chucks on. I would be so much more comfortable than I am in heels. And I could run away, which would have been a nice option.
“You’re already here, Libby,” she reminds me sternly. “You’re already doing it. Now, come on.”
I don’t have much choice but to follow her as she drags me by the wrist across the parking lot. If I try to get away, I am more than likely to sprain my ankle or something.
Besides, I tell myself, two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. Just remember that.
A man slides off his barstool next to the front door as we approach. I recognize his stringy hair and scarecrow frame from the video. He looks me over with no shame. I can practically feel his eyes sliding from my toes, through all the holes in my jeans, circling my navel, and inspecting my tits before he meets my eyes.
His tongue rolls around his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips like he’s got a mouthful of octopus tentacles or something. When he smiles, I notice he’s missing teeth here and there, just a few so that the remainder are slanted at weird angles, spaced out too much. Brown at the edges.
“What did you bring me, Mona?” he asks slyly. “Who is this angel?”
“You just keep your eyes to yourself, Ty,” Mona snaps, positioning herself between me and him so that he can’t get too close.
I stifle a shiver as he bites his lower lip suggestively. What is it with this kind of guy? Am I supposed to be impressed just because he exists? Just because he is gracing me with his attention?
“I think I will call you Angel,” he purrs.
“Why don’t you just call her Tammy, which is her name!” Mona barks.
She flicks out an ID from the front pocket of her ginormous purse, waving it under his eyeline briefly even though he isn’t paying attention. Then she slides it back into her purse and starts pulling me toward the door again. I hobble helplessly behind her.
“She’s going to be our beer girl tonight, Ty,” Mona announces.
“Wait, no, the hell she is,” Ty scoffs. “I don’t need a bar girl. I am not hiring.”
I glance down at Mona uncertainly, and that hesitation is just enough for Ty to get his bearings and mentally reload.
“Mona, no shit. I’m not hiring. I’m not paying her. If you want your friend here, she can sit at the bar and keep you company. That’s it.”
Mona pivots to face him, knuckling her hip angrily. The glitter in her hair shimmers ridiculously in the sodium lights, like she is a starlet in the wrong movie. She should have been in the show with all the Broadway and famous people. Instead we seem to be in a reality TV production about mismanaged dental care.
They face off silently. Her left eyebrow is raised so high she looks like a comic book character. I can tell she is ready to throw down, though, no matter what he says. We are doing this.
“Ty, I am this close to walking out of this place forever. Tammy is here to help me. You are going to pay her, you understand me? Or you are going to be doing the show tonight yourself, how about that!”
He rolls his eyes, sucking his teeth as he postures, pretending like he is actually involved in a negotiation. He thinks he’s got the upper hand, so he just stares at me again, not even concealing what he is thinking.
“Hey, I always have a job for a pretty lady,” he shrugs. “But I’m not letting her in the bar. Why don’t you leave her here with me? I’m sure I can find something… productive for her to be doing. I always have a use for girls like you.”
Mona leans backward subtly, pushing me with her shoulder toward the door.
“She’s coming in here with me, or I quit!” she announces loudly.
Before he can say anything, she’s got me through the door and into the dark, smelly interior of the bar. In a hurry, she tugs me back toward the kitchen and bathroom area. I try to keep up, practically stumbling over the legs of barstools as my eyes slowly adjust.
“Mona, just let me go home! I didn’t even really want to be here!”
Flinging open the door to the kitchen, she guides me through stainless-steel countertops and grills. The lone cook gives me a startled glance, then turns back to the sad burgers frying among the caramelized onions.
Overhead fluorescent lights flicker as she drags me to a small cubby at the back. Cigarette smoke drifts in through the six-inch opening at the back door, which is propped open with a cinderblock. Mona dumps her handbag on a pile of handbags in the corner underneath a stained commercial sink.
“Just leave your stuff there,” she huffs. “Nobody will bother it.”
“Mona, are you listening to me? I would rather just walk home, okay? He doesn’t want me here, and I can still make it to Krazy Mart for a shift.”
“What are you talking about?” she sniffs dismissively. “You’re here, Libby. You’re hired. Just leave your bag here and let’s get on the floor so I can show you what’s up and get you started.”
Confused, I drop my bag on the
pile like she told me.
“What are you talking about? He said he wouldn’t hire me. You heard him.”
“Oh, fuck that guy,” she rolls her eyes. “Ty says a lot of things he doesn’t mean. He is so high, he probably doesn’t even remember what just happened. You can’t believe a word he says.”
“Wait, what? He’s high? Then why were we… I don’t get it!”
She shrugs, scratching the back of her arm absentmindedly as she squints at a plastic cup full of lip glosses in various shades. After a moment, I realize that this area of the kitchen seems to almost be like a dressing room. There are dusty pots of makeup and mascara tubes with dried black globs of goo caking the sides.
That cannot be sanitary, is what I am thinking.
“There is nothing for you to get,” she sniffs, holding out a purple tube of lip gloss to me. “Put this on. I think this shade will look good with your hair.”
I take the lip gloss in my fingertips, noting how sticky the scuffed fake metal cap is.
“You want me to put this on my face? On my actual lips?”
“Jesus, it’s not poison, Libby! It’s lip gloss! They put stuff in it to make it… you know. Antibacterial and stuff.”
“Yeah, they definitely do not do that.”
Turning to face me fully, she cocks her head to the side and raises her eyebrows accusingly. I realize that I am at the very outer edge of her patience.
“Okay, Liberty Jane, I am just trying to help you, all right? You’re here, you’re going to serve beer, and I will make sure that Ty keeps his filthy paws off you so that you can earn some money for your future, got it?”
“Um, yeah, okay,” I mutter, figuring that she’s not really up for a solid argument right now.
“That’s more like it!” she snaps. “You know, a little gratitude wouldn’t hurt you every once in a while!”
“Yeah, okay,” I wince, wondering why she is being so mean all of a sudden.
She raises her eyebrows at me imperiously. Then pauses. Then waits.
“I mean… thank you?” I offer meekly.
Her shoulders finally relax and she takes a deep breath. “There. That’s all I wanted,” she grumbles. “And you’re welcome. Now, let’s get you out there and do some quick training. It’s not brain surgery or anything. I am sure you can handle it.”
It’s only been a few minutes, but apparently this is the time of night when the crowd really starts to roll in. The bar is darker, but now there is some kind of light show going on. The music is turned up. I keep an eye on Mona’s sultry back as she expertly navigates through tables, chairs, and customers. She doesn’t pay any attention to them, but they all turn as she walks by, looking her over with unhidden delight. It looks like everybody here already knows her.
Under a neon sign for Miller beer with a NASCAR team, there is a giant, waist-high tub of ice. The dark glass necks of beer bottles poke out among the glittering cubes, looking sort of like a sea of messages in bottles, floating.
She holds her hands out like a game show hostess. “All right, this is your station, beer girl.”
“Yeah, this looks like the place,” I agree, finally feeling like I am getting my bearings.
“So, you have your Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light, Coors Light, and PBR over here. Then you got your twenty-ounce cans over here. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“When the bar gets busy, people will come over and ask you for whatever. If they ask for a shot or a mixed drink, you gotta send them to me. But if it is just beer, bottles are five bucks, cans are seven.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“There is a tip jar, but you’ll end up with a lot in your pockets too. That apron is gonna come in real handy.”
“Okay, understood,” I nod.
“Now, you stand over there,” she points, stepping aside.
Obediently I position myself behind the giant tub and lean on it. She takes a step back and squints at me, tipping her head to the side before finally breaking into a smile.
“You look good… Tammy!”
I smile back, shrugging innocently as I survey my new bounty of icy beers.
“The busboy will keep you stocked with ice and fresh bottles. So that’s it! Any questions?”
Shaking my head, I remind myself that it’s two hundred dollars. Two hundred easy dollars. And we are already underway. My dad always says there’s no point in changing horses midstream.
No problem. I can handle this horse.
“And what are you going to do?” I ask her as she begins to lean away.
She gestures over her shoulder. “Oh, I will be behind the bar. You know. Just the usual stuff. Serving up burgers and fries. Shots and shots and shots. Friday night at Sweeney’s. You know.”
I smile blandly.
She looks around for a few more seconds then finally shakes her head in theatrical frustration.
“Okay, there is one more thing,” she finally admits.
“One more thing?” I repeat sweetly. “Like what? What kind of thing?”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop playing so innocent,” she sniffs. “You have probably heard about the lingerie show, right? It’s really not a big deal. Everybody acts like it is a big deal but it is not a big deal.”
“Okay... Want to fill me in?”
She looks around distractedly. “Just about nine o’clock, the other bartenders and I just kind of circle the bar. We walk around. Guys tip us. The music gets really loud. Not a big deal.”
“Oh, you just circle the bar? Like this? Just walking around? For tips?”
She narrows her eyes at me. I smile back.
“Is this where the lingerie part comes in?” I continue, determined to drag the information out of her even if she doesn’t really want to tell me.
“Yeah, pretty much,” she admits.
“You circle the bar… in your underwear?”
Rolling her eyes, she looks all around at everything except for me. I know she doesn’t want me to, but I start laughing. And once I start, it just gets funnier and funnier. She leans toward me, waving her hand in my face to get me to shut up.
“Hey! What are you doing? People are staring!”
“Mona, that’s funny!”
She shakes her head in exaggerated disgust. “Whatever. It’s just a job. You should see the other things that people have to do when they work for Ty.”
“Wait… like what?”
Her mouth pops open in surprise, as though she said too much. Then she presses her lips tightly together. “You know what? Never mind. Just suffice it to say you are opening beers. That’s it. When we get to the lingerie show, try to enjoy yourself, okay? I know how you like to watch, after all.”
I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively, doing my best impression of Ty as I look her up and down like she is a pork chop.
“Oh, baby… I am definitely going to enjoy myself!”
She opens her mouth in outrage and picks up an ice cube from the bin, flinging it at me.
“All right, smarty-pants! You are on your own!”
“Wait, no, I’m just kidding!” I call out as she walks away. “Mona, come back!”
But it is too late. As she turns her back to me, she raises one fist and extends one, single, middle finger in my direction. I know she is kidding, but I guess that’s the end of my training.
Two hundred dollars, I tell myself again as I survey the dark room and the people in it. Some look like military, most look like townies. They have the expectant attitudes of people who are definitely here for the show. I kind of half knew what Mona was going to say, but hearing her say it took me a little bit by surprise. I thought I was supposed to be the freak?
Well, I guess tonight will be entertaining. I’m glad I’m not on the menu.
Chapter 6
Libby
The first twenty minutes are a little bit rocky, I have to admit, but after that I seem to get the hang of it. The trick is to know where all the beers are. Miller Lite
is in this corner, and Bud Light is in this corner. Also, the back of the bottle opener is useful for opening up those big cans. Good to know, because I only have ten fingernails.
The guys hand me cash with a smile, sort of hopeful and open, like maybe buying a beer from me also gets them some conversation. I am polite and eager to move onto the next customer though, so that is just not going to work out no matter how hopeful they are.
After all, it seems like a dollar a beer is the standard amount of a tip. And if these guys drink five beers each… Maybe forty different guys…
Two hundred dollars is a definite possibility! I guess Mona wasn’t just shining me on after all!
And, yeah, I guess being a blonde gets me a little bit of a training bonus. Or being female does, anyway. Even the few times that I had to dig around in the ice with my bare hands, trying to find the exact combination of beverages, nobody seemed to get very impatient. It is still early, though. I suppose once they really get to drinking, their attitudes might get less friendly.
Or more friendly. Which is its own kind of situation.
The music isn’t so bad. I actually find myself getting into it a little bit. I am more of an indie rock kind of gal, but I appreciate the lovelorn poetry of a good country song as much as anybody. I’m not entirely sure any of these country songwriting billionaires have ever actually ridden in a pickup truck or been on a dusty road, but maybe a few have. By that standard, I am 100 percent more country than they are, even if I grew up in Seattle. They’re catchy, at any rate. I have to give them that.
And moving really helps out with these shoes. I have wished at least a thousand times that Mona had let me keep my sneakers on. I can feel the heel scraping the skin off my foot. Make that one thousand and one.
“Music is good, huh?” comes an oily voice.
I flinch automatically, then try to cover by reaching into the ice and rearranging some of the bottles. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to meet Ty’s picket fence smile.
“Yeah… I’m kind of getting to like it,” I answer truthfully.
